


The Monster Outside The Box

by lapsi



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fucking Machines, Rape, Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-22
Updated: 2013-08-22
Packaged: 2017-12-24 06:38:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/936585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lapsi/pseuds/lapsi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Debt can be paid in many ways, but humiliation is perhaps the most costly. Hatred can make it harder to keep bearing humiliation without lashing out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Monster Outside The Box

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Man in the Box](https://archiveofourown.org/works/875568) by [robinasnyder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/robinasnyder/pseuds/robinasnyder). 



> Original setting from 'The Man in the Vending Machine' by The Patron Saint of Anonymous Smut. 
> 
> Inspired by the development and additional depths added by The Man in the Box by robinasnyder

The first indication that Alastair's opening up the machines comes from across the lobby. It's late, and Dean expects it's about 2, 2:30 in the morning. That's always regular, the fact that it's the middle of the night. How often Dean's tormentor visits? Well, that changes. There's no clock in his line of vision ever, which is just as well. A man can go crazy waiting. The boy slumps down from the spot of yellow light opposite, trying to hide his face.   
  
Dean was terrified of the repairman at first. The heart racing, bravado, smartass brand of terrified. Dean's more of a fight than a flight sort of guy. Strapped into this box, he's definitely not fleeing.  
  
Dean is still scared of Alastair, but now it's more complicated. The short conversations are the only time he hears a sound but his own begging and moaning. The examinations are the only touches he feels except for the mechanicals claws and pads. In some ways, he craves the brief attention and what he could almost term Alastair's affection. In other ways it just makes his skin crawl, more than anything else about his situation.  
  
He racks his brain for a smartass remark as he watches the man walk closer in that odd strutting manner. As usual, he picks up a barstool, carries it over, pulling on a pair of white gloves and rolling up his shirtsleeves. The man's long fingers move around the panel strategically out of Dean's view, pressing in a long code, swiping a card, and then the man smiles up with too many teeth. One of the sharks. No, not one of them. This man could eat sharks. He was that unspoken monster that lurked beneath every other predator, hungry and patient.  
  
His eyes dart to Dean's secured limbs, and then he opens the glass front with the touch of a button. Dean's chin stays down, but his lips twitch at the nasal tone.

"Hello, Dean."

 

 

"Hey, Alastair. Nice day of killing babies and suffocating puppies in plastic bags?” Dean says, forcing something close to his old winning smile. The name had been one of the first things Alastair shared. Getting on equal terms, perhaps, or just Alastair’s idea of a friendship. Dean’s smile is empty and grotesque, a mask and nothing more. “I mean, I don't know your day job, but I can extrapolate from your personality."

"Quiet day, I can see. Not nearly so mouthy when you've been put through your paces," Alastair tuts, sweetly. "You're gonna have to try harder to rile me up, Freckles. Seeing you is the highlight of my week. No-one else racks up debt like you did, you see, and so they come and go. You? You and I are forever, Dean. An eternal flame. I just don't get the... hm, what word am I looking for, Dean? The... mmm, the personal connection."  
  
He starts the check-up as he always does. His fingers caress the curved straps as always, checking the tension on Dean's arms in stationary position. Dean swears Alastair likes the machines more than any occupant. Alastair once told him they were his designs, and Dean doesn't doubt that for a second.  
  
He once called Alastair the 'Rape Box Whisperer', but the nickname earned him a sharp glare and punishment. Dean treads a thin line between prickly enough to be interesting, and what Alastair considers blatantly disrespectful. In fact, Dean learned not to get him really angry early. Alastair didn't like to wilt the precious little orchid in its pretty vase, but he knew just where to dislocate bones and twist nerves so that any positions he was contorted into were pure agony. That's not the worst of it. Alastair programs the damn things. If Dean is too unobliging, the merciless machine will be even worse the next day. The only time Dean’s see Alastair truly furious was when he once damaged the machine trying to escape. He’d got a few fingers free, and was scrabbling for the control panel when Alastair had caught him. He’d not said a word, just pushed Dean back, tightened the straps, locked up the front. The next few days had been painful like Dean couldn’t describe. The prices mysteriously dropped to a pittance. People saw a deal, and lined up to take it. No heed for the man screaming and begging and regretting his actions. Dean’s not going to do that ever again. It’s a lesson learned.

 

 

The hand slides in an analytical manner over his torso. Checking for muscle atrophy, Dean guesses. It's only at the lower half of his stomach that Dean flinches, but he earns a chuckle and a pat on the cheek. The white latex makes a little slapping sound. Dean flinches at that too.  
  
"You keep being so damn moody, boy, you're going to be in here a year. Or maybe you can infuriate them into putting you through the real expensive, _nasty_ treatments. I mean, if pleading doesn't work," Alastair murmurs. He sounds paternal, which infuriates Dean. He has no right to tell me what to do to help myself. He's pure evil, whatever evil is. Evil is distilled in this man. Razor blades soaked in honey.

His glare becomes more hateful as he watches Alastair swapping out a piece of equipment. First a short stretch of optic fibre, then a little panel of circuitry. He whistles a merry tune as he places them into a briefcase, replaces them. Lastly, Alastair unpackages a red, curved toy, smelling of the same antiseptic floral that everything in Dean's hell reeks of. It looks thicker than usual, and Alastair holds it up for close examination. In the white light that shines from the box, with Alastair’s white gloves, it looks like he’s a curator showing off fine art. He handles it with such delicate reverence Dean can’t help but stare.  "You like it? Eye-catching, don't you think? Only the best for you, my boy."

"You sick fuck," Dean whispers, mouth suddenly dry. He expects to be hit, but there's only that bizarre, scratchy laugh, and then Alastair's fiddling around at the mechanics under Dean's legs. He presses a few buttons on the machine, and Dean grimaces, eyes growing glassy with horror as the machine moves him. He's useless, strung up by the whirring arms, pulling him into an awkward squatting position. The toy moves, but it's not the usual fucking Dean endures. Alastair's in control here with his pad. It enters inch by artificially slippery inch. Dean's shallow gasping and screwed closed eyes can almost isolate him from the trauma. Breathe in, Dean. Just breathe in. He relaxes after a few seconds, through the worst of the pain. It doesn't appear to be moving. A low, infuriating throb from where it's buried deep within him and nothing more. It's not pleasurable, it's just intrusive, stretching, _there._ He could have almost ignored it forever, but Alastair starts speaking again.

 

 

"I've never been in one of these, you know. My own children, and I haven't felt their embrace. Then again, I'm not stupid enough to get into debt like you. You could make it so much easier for yourself, too. You can manipulate them, Dean. You're better than them. They're monsters for wanting to see that, aren't they?"

"...y-yes, Alastair," Dean whispers. He's having trouble ignoring it now.

"You're damn right they are. You know, I designed all of these boxes. Not this specific one, mind. This is factory ordered. No, I used to work designing the prototypes, back when it was just plain old interrogation. Next thing I know that goddamn businessman sweeps on in to the company, scams me out of my goddamn job and takes all my plans for his own gain. Now I fix the machines he owns. That fucking insect. I'd like to leave him in one of these for a couple of years and see how smug he was after that, the little parasitic cretin," Alastair's fuming to himself, now, almost ignoring Dean completely. Which is just as well. Dean finds himself shorter and shorter of breath, feeling his body reacting and hating himself for it. He can't help it. He wriggles and the toy seems to dance a jig across a bundle of nerves inside him. He whimpers. A laugh echoes through the empty casino. It catches in every nook, every empty room and hall. A chorus of echoes mocks the boy. Alastair's mouth twists into a cruel smirk. "Oh, Kitten's purring."

 

 

Dean's sure Alastair doesn't need to come in to check on his health. He's a sadistic son of a bitch, pure and simple. Still, there are small mercies; Alastair never touches him beyond the check-ups, gives him a point of reference for the indeterminable months. Not that he needs to torture Dean himself. He lets his machines do it all. He sits back, just as he is now, and seems to appreciate the beauty of the mechanics. Dean's orgasm comes after a few minutes of weak begging to be freed, calling for Sam to save him. Then he sags forward, a cured carcass hanging for consumption.  
  
Alastair stops the vibration, Dean droops further down when the toy is removed. He can't even properly feel shame now, but dry sobbing rises up. It bubbles through his tight lips, salty now. Alastair clicks his tongue between his teeth at the tears. Dean is showing his usual ingratitude. It was a present for the brat, after all.

"I've told you how to cut down your sentence. Con them, Dean. Get _them_ into debt. Make them suffer like you do. You'll be out of here in no time, kid."

"Yes, Alastair," Dean chokes. Alastair's smile lights up the dark space. The light from Dean's box, his home, makes his visitor look like a phantasm. Something vast and powerful, from the deepest depths of the darkness. Skin stretched tight over his skull, eyes cold and hollow. His entire head is hollow, and Dean has locked eyes with an empty shell. Still, when he presses a button, and Dean's bent forward with his face to the floor, it doesn't hurt. With the same surgical precision and detachment, Alastair checks the muscles in his back.

"Cheer up. How about a song, son? Any requests."

"Something... soft..." Dean whispers, too weak to lie. Alastair smiles again. His nasal tone floats around the empty casino as he manipulates Dean to keep his prize specimen healthy.

_"Why do birds suddenly appear... every time you are near? Just like me, they long to be..."_

Dean's lips move in sync, the words choked up from a cracked, broken throat.

_"Close to you."_


End file.
